by Ryan King
He'd run into an old West Point classmate of his while at Fort Polk, Louisiana the previous year on training exercises and gotten his card. Abraham dug around in his top desk drawer, shuffling papers and offices supplies back and forth.
"There you are!" he cried out, holding up the business card. He reached for the phone and called the number on the card. Maybe his old friend could pull some strings and figure something out.
The card read, “Lucas Ross, Chief of Staff, Louisiana Governor.”
Chapter 21
Charles Haywood had grown up so closely acquainted with anger and resentment that it had become a close friend. That anger protected him when others tried to hurt him. It provided justification whenever he felt uncertainty or shame at some of the things he did. Daily life was an arena where he was the animal dragged out of its cage to die again and again for the enjoyment of the world.
That was until Coach Mac, the revered old football coach at Tallulah High, had sat down next to him one day at lunch. The cafeteria was crowded with smiling and laughing teenagers, but none sat near Charles' brooding hulk. At only fourteen, he was already bigger and stronger than even the senior class boys who used to beat him up years before.
Coach Mac eyed him with a small smile. "You're a big one. Heard you like to fight. What if I gave you an opportunity to do it without getting into trouble?"
Charles normally would have laughed or responded sarcastically, but Coach Mac was a legend. He had played guard for Coach Bear Bryant at the University of Kentucky and helped them win their only national championship in 1950 before going on to play a few years professional football for the Cleveland Browns. The old man's hands were gnarled from countless smalls breaks, but that only made them stronger. This was someone Charles would not cross lightly, someone worthy of respect.
"You want me to play football?" Charles asked. "Forget it. Those prima donnas don't want nothing to do with me."
Coach Mac looked over at a crowded table of loud jocks in school letter jackets. Pretty girls crowded around vying for their attention. "They are a bunch of prima donnas. You're right about that"—he turned back to look at Charles—"but I can see you're not."
"No, sir," answered Charles, taking a bite of food that would only quiet his ever-present physical hunger for a while. He was almost always hungry, and his mother rarely thought to buy anything to put in their refrigerator or cabinet.
"When I was your age"—the man smiled at Charles wistfully—"I'd knock the dog shit out of little punks like that. Do everything I could to put them in the freaking hospital. That's what I loved about football."
Charles had stopped eating and was watching the table of jocks.
"But I'm old now and happen to be their coach. I try to talk some sense into them, but what they really need is someone to put a serious butt whipping on them. Unfortunately, I don't have anyone on my team big enough, or strong enough, or just plain mean enough to do that."
Charles' mind started to turn, and his legs quivered with the idea of crushing those pretty boys into the dirt. "So you want to use me to teach your boys a lesson?'
"Partly," answered the coach. "My team has talent, but no toughness. This season is going to be rough because we're not ready for it. I'd like you to help prepare them, and then I want you to destroy the teams that we play against."
Charles shook his head. "They'll never let me in their circle. Sure, I could come to a few practices and stomp them for you, but they'll find me later and gang up on me."
Coach Mac looked at him for a long moment. "You come in and be who you are, and stick with us, they'll do more than accept you. They'll follow you."
Charles Haywood had scoffed at the old coach, but nevertheless, he came out for the two-a-day practices in the blazing Louisiana summer for the opportunity to inflict punishment on others. What he had found was just what the coach promised, a place he could be violent and angry and hurt others without getting into trouble. Hell, they had praised him and, like the coach said, accepted him...eventually.
By his junior year, he was All-State and Second Team All-American. His senior year, they won a state championship, and Charles was recognized as the best defensive end in the country. Two months after that state championship, Coach Mac died of cancer. None of the players even knew he had the disease but learned he had been fighting a losing battle for nearly a decade. By then, Charles was a different person and he recognized the gift that the old man had given him.
He'd gone to play football at LSU and, when on the field, was a fierce force of nature, filled with fury and determination. He had terrorized opposing offensive players. Off the field, he'd been calm, gentle, and funny. The dark angry side of him rarely showed itself anymore.
Until now.
Charles flexed his hands convulsively looking at the guards. He breathed in deep gasps, and he could imagine himself snapping their necks with his bare hands. A few saw his menacing look and pointed their rifles at him.
"Get back to work," said Dick, one of the younger guards with false bravado.
Charles' return smile was chilling, but he picked up a large rock nevertheless. He mentally calculated the distance and decided the soldier was outside of his throwing range. Instead, he heaved it into the back of the truck onto a pile of other large rocks. They had put him to work over the last few days collecting rocks from the high ground to fill in a washed-out area under the north fence line. He had majored in civil engineering and could have told them, had they asked, that the fence would only wash out again somewhere else. The problem was they had built the camp in the path of a major water run-off from the high ground. Most of the time it was a dry ditch, but when it rained heavily it became a raging torrent. Blocking the water's path would only make it go elsewhere, maybe take out the fence's foundation.
He slowed in his movements. This wasn't the first time he'd thought of escape, but he sensed there was something there. Some idea just beyond his consciousness and it had to do with the run-off and the rocks he was putting into the hole.
"That's enough, you goon," said Dick, showing off for his partner. He pointed at the truck. "Climb up in the back; we're done here."
Charles did as he was told. When the guard came close to shackle him to the ringbolt at the rear of the truck, the big man's smile caused the guard to slow in his tracks.
"Now don't you try anything," he warned. Turning to his partner, he said, "Hey, get ready to tase this asshole should he try anything."
"My pleasure," answered Cam, pulling out a baton-sized cattle prod.
Dick cautiously handcuffed Charles to the bed of the truck and then motioned for him to sit down on one of the wheel wells. Charles had little room for his legs with all the large rocks and had to rest them awkwardly on top of the pile.
The ride back to camp was painfully bumpy, but Charles enjoyed the time out of his cage. Just the thought of going back inside made his heart beat a little faster. He hated being cooped up. They parked near the washed-out area of the fence they had been working on, and the two guards exited the cab.
"Want to unload before dinner?" Dick asked his partner.
"There's no hurry," answered Cam. "We can have the goon do it tomorrow. Let's just lock him back up."
They unlocked Charles from the ring on the truck bed, but kept his hands cuffed in front of him, leading him back to his cage.
"Be just in time for your dinner too, big boy," said Cam.
Charles' breathing started to get faster as they walked down the line of cells. Heather and Amanda are in two of those, he thought.
"Hey, Heather, Amanda," he yelled loudly. "It's me, Charles."
"Shut your mouth!" said Cam poking him with the butt of the cattle prod.
Charles ignored him. "You in there, girls? Hang in there! You're not alone!"
Dick jumped in front of Charles, anger on his face. "Damnit, you're not supposed to—"
He never finished because Charles reached up and grabbed the man's throat in his shackled ha
nds and began squeezing tightly at the same time he lifted the guard off the ground. Dick punched and kicked at the big man, but it did about as much good as a mouse struggling in the hands of a giant.
Charles heard Cam power up the cattle prod behind him, and he turned away, putting a weakly struggling Dean between them.
"You drop him now," said Cam, holding the cattle prod out between them.
"In just a minute," answered Charles with a smile as he gripped tighter.
Cam lunged at Charles with the prod, but the big man swung Dick out like a rag doll and the prod hit the guard's leg. Charles felt a mild jolt, but nothing more.
Cam was starting to panic. He pulled a radio from his belt. "Code Red! Code Red! By the north cells, we need help now!"
"Code Red is right, motherfucker," said Charles with an evil grin.
"I need help!" Cam screamed into the radio.
"They won't make it in time to help little Dick here," said Charles, looking at the man's purple face. "They might not even make it to help you."
Cam lunged with the prod again, and Charles danced out of the way. The guard ran at him, and Charles, using Dick as a shield, batted the prod away and then kicked Cam savagely in the groin. The guard dropped to the ground, his mouth a soundless O and wide eyes staring at Charles unbelievingly. Charles stepped closer and stomped down on the fallen guard's face and felt a satisfying crunch under his heel.
Hearing running feet behind him, Charles spun around, a limp guard still in both hands. The fury and anger had taken hold of him now, and it was a glorious feeling. Preparing to either kill as many as he could or make them kill him, Charles only got far enough around to see Lyles out of the corner of his eye. The man had a riot gun leveled at him from about fifteen feet away. Charles tried to put the flaccid Dick between them, but Lyles fired first
Charles felt a powerful blow to his side, just under his armpit. Without knowing how he ended up on the ground, he looked up to see men standing over him menacingly.
A smirking Lyles was standing over him with a smoking shotgun. Charles tried to say something. All went mercifully black.
Chapter 22
Heather Daniels heard Charles and yelled back to him, grateful to know she wasn't alone. She had seen him on occasion from a distance, but it sounded like he was right outside her door.
"Charles!" she yelled, beating on the heavy door. "I'm in here. I'm okay."
Is that true? she wondered absently before hearing angry turned fearful.
"What's going on?" she asked, but expected no answer and got none.
Running feet and then more angry talk. A gunshot. Then silence.
"Charles!" she screamed. "What happened? What's going on out there?"
A heavy slap on the other side of her metal door made her jump backwards.
"Shut up in there."
"What did you do to Charles?" she yelled out even louder. Other fainter voices could be heard but not understood. Could they be Amanda or other prisoners?
She screamed out at the top of her lungs. "What is going on out there?"
There was a low conversation outside her door and then a key rattled in the lock. The door swung open on squeaky hinges, and rough hands dragged her outside and slapped plastic flex cuffs on her wrists.
Heather swung her head around in the glaring sunlight, trying to find Charles. She saw two limp uniforms on the ground, one with a sheet partially covering him and the other in a pool of blood with two men trying to help him. Heather finally saw Charles through a mass of men in uniform struggling to pick him up. Lunging towards the men, she caught her captors by surprise, and two men gave chase and tackled her to the ground.
"You killed him, you bastards!"
A shadow loomed over her. Looking up, she recognized the one called Urchart.
"We didn't kill him," he said slowly. "Just knocked him out." He turned back to look at the two men Charles had attacked. "Although, he would certainly have it coming if we did."
"Screw you!" she screamed, trying to struggle up off the ground while the guards held her down easily with their body weight. "Whatever this place is we're not supposed to be here, you asshole!"
Urchart nodded. "I don't disagree with you, but you're here now nevertheless."
"Let us go," she pleaded. "Just let us go."
"Not going to happen," he said, not unkindly.
"Can we move this along?" asked an elderly woman in a lab coat holding a clipboard. “The doctor has a schedule to keep and doesn't like to fall behind.”
Urchart motioned to the two men holding Heather, and they lifted her up onto her feet. Heather was propelled after the woman in the lab coat as the two guards carried her forward by hands under her shoulders. Her feet barely touched the ground.
They proceeded to the far edge of the camp. Buildings and structures slowly disappeared in direct proportion to the increase in trees and vegetation. Heather saw a shed ahead of them with a steel door and security code touchpad on the front.
"Where are we going?" she asked nearly in a whisper.
"Time to earn your keep," said one of the guards.
The other one snickered. "Yeah, you didn't think these fine accommodations and dining experiences were free, did you?"
The woman turned and glared at the men, and their smiles vanished. She focused on the touchpad and entered a series of numbers resulting in a cheerful beep and click. The woman pushed the door aside and walked down steps.
The two men dragged a struggling Heather forward and down a long flight of dim stairs.
Heather's heart sank as he heard the heavy door slam shut above her.
Chapter 23
Port Allen Chief of Police Andrew Bolton decided he had been through enough for one day. The morning had started with having to read a suspension to one of his best officers for drinking and driving, then an arson call at an apartment building where there had been three burned bodies, one of them a child, and finally that afternoon having to chase down reports of some pervert flashing old ladies and young girls downtown.
Right now, Bolton just wanted to get home, crack a beer, pop a Healthy Choice TV dinner in the microwave, and watch the Atlanta Braves game. He looked at the clock and saw it was within the acceptable window to depart. Normally a late worker, he knew when he was reaching burnout and his brain felt like mush. Grabbing his lunch cooler, he stopped at the desk of Gina his secretary.
"I'm going to call it a night," he told her. "Dispatch can give me a call at home if anything should come up."
"No problem, Chief," she answered with a flirtatious flip of her blonde hair. "We got it from here. You need anything else?"
He was tempted. Gina was beautiful, and they had been dancing around each other for several years, but he had instituted a strict policy against dating relationships within the police department, and Chief Bolton prided himself on not being hypocritical.
"Appreciate it," he told her, "but I'm fine. Have a good night and get out of here soon."
"I will and thanks," she responded.
He almost made it to the front doors when Sergeant Tooms intercepted him with a serious look. "Chief, you better come listen to this."
"Can it wait until tomorrow?" Bolton asked. "This has been one hell of a day."
Tooms shook his head. "Sorry, boss, but I don't think so."
Chief Bolton sighed and followed Tooms to the man's desk.
"You remember that missing person's report we got a few days ago?" Tooms asked him.
The police chief had to think for a minute. "The accountant?"
"Yeah," said Tooms. "He's from Simon and Kestler, which is now Simon, Kestler, and Athers. They called it in."
"Right," said Andrew remembering. "The new partner there, Evan Athers. Did he turn up after a long weekend at Biloxi like I predicted?"
"Not exactly," answered Tooms, pressing a button on his computer.
"911, what is the nature of your emergency?" said a young lady's voice.
A seriousnes
s voice answered, "Yes, this is Evan Athers. We have an emergency situation here at—"
The voice stopped talking when the telltale sounds of machine gun fire erupted, and then the line when dead.
Chief Bolton looked at Tooms with wide eyes, his fatigue forgotten. "Is this for real?"
Toom's nodded. "Yes, had our techs check it out, and they confirmed it's a real call. That sounds like real machine gun fire."
"Wait a minute," said Andrew, "that's a 911 call. Why are you getting it in an email?"
"Yeah, that's also interesting," said Tooms. "This is from the Louisiana State Police, who got it from the Arizona State Police. The call itself was made last Friday."
"So, our missing person is in Arizona?" Andrew asked. "Presuming, of course, that he's still alive, which I'm inclined to think he isn't, given that call."
"Me neither," said Tooms, "but this might not have been in Arizona. The 911 call was made from a satellite phone. Actually, I checked with the provider, and it was one of those new phones that works as both a regular phone and satellite phone. All iridium satellite calls get routed to the ground station in Tempe."
"But it only works in the satellite mode if there isn't regular cell coverage," Bolton said.
"Right," answered Tooms. "But it also has to be someplace outside where you can get clear lines of sight to the sky."
Chief Bolton thought for a moment and shook his head. "That doesn't really help us much. He could literally be anywhere. We should probably upgrade his case from a missing persons to possible homicide."
"Already done, Chief, but that's not all," Tooms said with a smile. "We got lucky with a hit on Mr. Athers' car at a tow truck lot down at Avery Island."
Bolton looked at Tooms and then over at the wall map. "What's down there that's outside of cell coverage?"
"Lots and lots of open water," answered Tooms. "Might have gone on a fishing trip or something, maybe ran into some crazy Cajuns or pirates or something."
"Any reported missing boats in that area?"
"I've called the local PD and they're checking. Nothing yet."